


wake up call

by visiblemarket



Series: Tumblr Prompts [15]
Category: Constantine (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Feelings, M/M, fluff and angst and smut so -- the usual, the year of id fic, vague dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:47:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29015346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: Chas gives a warm, amused chuckle and shakes his shoulder again. "C’mon," he says. "I already let you sleep in.""Oh,letme, did you?" John mumbles, rolling away. “You the ultimate bloody authority on when I get out of bed, now?""Well," Chas says, and the mattress shifts. He presses a quick, prickling kiss to the nape of John’s neck. “It is my bed."John turns over. "So it is," he concedes, and Chas, sitting at the edge of the bed, smiles down at him.
Relationships: Chas Chandler/John Constantine
Series: Tumblr Prompts [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/232896
Comments: 7
Kudos: 35





	wake up call

**Author's Note:**

> [inspired by an anon ask at tumblr dot com](https://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/post/641439929002557440/morning-johnchas-silliness-where-john-doesnt).

_The light is warm on his face but it burns his eyes as he gropes around the room, hands sliding on smooth, cold walls. He turns away from the glare, but feels it anyway, hot across his neck, seeping into his skin._

_He hears a beating heart, distant but familiar. Feels steady breaths, slow and even, the rise and fall of a chest beneath his cheek._

_Looks up — a reflection, pale and hazy in the polished surface, stares back at him. Hair mused, damp with sweat. Pupils wide and unfocused. Scrawny, naked body drowning in a filthy, unbuttoned shirt._

_Cock heavy between his legs, and he’s struck by the need to shield himself — out of shame or fear or both — but his hands are numb, stiff with the cold, unyielding as he —_

— jolts awake. Dangerously close to the edge of the bed, saved from falling by the hand round his shoulder and not much else. Drags him back toward the center of the mattress, and John wrenches out of his grip automatically, heart lurching in his throat. 

"Hey, no," he hears, low and soothing. Then apologetic, and self-deprecating: "It’s just me."

John relaxes, and then forces a frown. " _What_?" he groans, burying his face into a pillow. It smells like Chas — the crisp soap, the salt of his sweat — and John can’t help but take another breath.

"It’s almost nine."

John groans again, knowing that really means it’s eight-thirty at the latest, and mumbles a quick, toothless “piss off" for good measure.

Chas gives a warm, amused chuckle and shakes his shoulder again. "C’mon," he says. "I already let you sleep in."

"Oh, _let_ me, did you?" John mumbles, rolling away. “You the ultimate bloody authority on when I get out of bed, now?"

"Well," Chas says, and the mattress shifts. He presses a quick, prickling kiss to the nape of John’s neck. “It is my bed."

John turns over. "So it is," he concedes, and Chas, sitting at the edge of the bed, smiles down at him.

"There you are," he says, strangely cheerful, as he leans over to brush a few strands of hair off John’s forehead. "Good morning.” 

John shuts his eyes — still too tired to stop himself from relishing the contact, from reaching out and resting his hand on Chas’ knee. “Had a dream about you,” he mumbles, soft and hazy as a sigh. 

“Oh yeah?” Chas asks, letting his own hand settle on top of John’s and rubbing his thumb along John’s wrist. "What kind of dream?" And then, when John doesn’t respond, with a slight, trepidatious throat clear that means he’s not sure he wants John to answer, he adds: “A bad dream?”

“Dunno yet,” John says, automatic and more honest than he should. 

He feels Chas tense, hears the quick, exasperated “ _oh_ ,” he lets out, followed by that typical, weary sigh of his, the one that accompanies his most pointed eye rolls at John’s behavior.

John winces. “It didn’t —“ he tries, floundering for an explanation. “Didn’t feel like—“ like a nightmare, exactly, but dreams are funny like that, especially his: they never quite mean what he wants them to, and never quite make sense til it’s too late. John sighs, and throws his arm over his eyes. "’s hard to explain."

“I—okay,” and Chas, bless him, stops short, making the obvious choice to leave it be. Goes back to stroking at John’s wrist with his thumb, with the sort of fond, casual tenderness that makes John want to scream or bolt or throw him off, anything to make Chas understand that he can — and should — do better than spending his life coddling a skinny, doomed bastard that’ll never be able to give him what he wants. 

He opens his eyes instead, pulls back his arm, and frowns as he takes in the fact that Chas is fully dressed: jeans and a dark shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. “Goin' somewhere?” he says, a vague, petty accusation.

Chas shrugs, obviously unperturbed. "Been up for a while."

John groans, and rolls back onto his stomach. Grumbles into the pillow: "Why?"

"Had stuff to do,” Chas says, leaning over to press a kiss to the side of John’s neck.

"Stuff?" John says, breath catching as Chas nuzzles at his throat, bearded cheeks rubbing mercilessly against John’s skin.

John squirms and Chas hums in appreciation, more than a little smug. "Made breakfast," he says, dragging his mouth across the line of John’s shoulders. "Took a shower," as if John couldn’t tell, from how good he smells, how warm he still is. “Cleaned the cab,” he adds, a little more pointed — John had promised to do it himself weeks ago, trying to forestall one of Chas’ lectures about his disrespect for others’ belongings — but the momentary bite in Chas’ tone is belied by the gentle fingers threading through John's hair. 

And then he yanks back the sheets, exposing John’s naked body to the cold air.

“Oh, fuck _off_ ,” John yelps, as a chill runs up his spine — he tries to turn, grabbing for the blanket, but finds himself pinned down, pressed against the mattress with a heavy, broad palm across the small of his back. “Chas—“

“Shh,” Chas murmurs, between his shoulder blades, and then reaches over: runs his hands down John’s arms and back, brisk and effective. Warmed in spite of himself and dangerously touch-drunk, John gives a low, satisfied moan. Chas chuckles to himself and leans in again, breathing “Better?” into John’s ear.

“No,” John says, smiling, and Chas kisses the side of his throat again, nuzzling into the join between neck and shoulder. John grumbles, skin tingling and hot, and rolls onto his back again, half-heartedly trying to escape, whole-heartedly thrilled when Chas follows him anyway.

He leans over, mouthing at John’s adam’s apple and along his collarbone, leaving John flushed and panting. Watching, breathless, as Chas drifts down his chest, slowly and with seemingly no goal in mind beyond driving John mad: wet, open mouthed kisses across his sternum, and hot, flickering licks to one nipple, then the other. 

John reaches for him, wanting to run his fingers through Chas' hair, desperate to pull him up and bring their mouths together, to push him down and hurry things along, to do anything, _anything_ that'll bring Chas closer. Chas, wordless and unconcerned, grabs John’s hand and pins it down against the mattress.

John breath catches, and he stills — staring up at Chas, transfixed as he keeps John’s wrist pinned while rising; leaning forward, throwing one long leg over John’s body. Kneeling over him, straddling John’s waist, as he grabs at John’s other hand and pins it down too. 

He squeezes John’s wrists, pushes them against the mattress, and then lets go, giving John a steady, firm look as he does. John nods, heart already racing, but takes a breath, trying to regain control, trying to pretend his cock isn’t already leaking, bobbing against his stomach and aching for attention. 

“Thought you wanted—” he tries, and then has to swallow, hard, as Chas’ broad palms begin to stroke at his chest and abdomen, fingers dragging up and down along John’s ribs. “Thought you wanted t' get me up,” 

Chas glances down, pointedly, and then looks up at him again. “I did get you up,” he says, matter of fact, and John groans, rolling his eyes. Chas laughs and drops his head again. Kisses down John’s chest, crawling down the bed till he’s kneeling between John’s eagerly spread thighs. 

John tenses, pressing himself against the mattress, trying his best to keep from trembling in anticipation, but — Chas is nuzzling at John’s stomach, his hip, the inside of his thighs. He drags John’s leg up and over his shoulder, and dives back in, arm wrapped around John’s thigh, beard rough on John’s already over-sensitive skin, tongue warm and wet and _everywhere_ except where John wants him — _needs him_ — the most. 

“Chas,” John pants, hips twitching, hands twisting in the sheets to keep from moving. “ _Chas_ …I...Please, just—“ and then gasps, as Chas slides his lips over the head of John’s cock. 

His mouth is hot and slick, and Chas is relentless, keeping a quick, steady rhythm, taking more and more of John in with each bob of his head. John moans, arching off the bed, as Chas takes him in completely. He noses teasingly at the coarse hair at the base of John's cock, and looks up — a smile in his eyes and around John’s cock as he swallows, throat tight and impossible hot, and John gasps, writhing off the bed and pulsing desperately into Chas' mouth.

And then collapses, boneless and hazy, back onto the mattress.

Chas kisses him again. Open mouthed, sloppy, at the base of his cock, the join of his hip. Breathing hard as he moves along John’s body, lips tracing back up John’s stomach and chest and throat. 

John opens his mouth and then Chas is against him, hot and familiar: the slide of lips and the bump of teeth and the taste of himself on Chas’ tongue. 

Chas cock — long and thick, straining beneath his jeans — twitches against John’s stomach, and John tries to press up against him, encouraging him. Chas’ll come just from giving head, sometimes, rutting thoughtlessly at the mattress and finishing before John can so much as lend a hand. But John always wants to — _aches_ to — touch him more.

Chas pulls back, dragging his lips away from John’s, making John whine at the loss of contact, and goes to unbutton his trousers. 

John beats him to it, fingers stumbling in his haste but Chas lets him, lets John open his jeans and reach in, lets John wrap his palm around the thick shaft and draw it out. 

John's eyelids are heavy but he can’t look away from Chas’ face as he touches him, dragging his fingers along the length of his cock, wanking him off with abandon. Chas is breathing hard and leaking into John’s hand but it’s John who finds himself begging, babbling away in a breathless whine — _c’mon, please, please, I want it, on me, please, Chas, please_. A few more strokes, and Chas obliges: thick pearly streaks, hot across John’s torso, stark against his flushed skin and the dark ink of his tattoos.

A breath.

They stare at each other, wary and uncertain, the unsubtle creep of embarrassment tinging the tips of Chas’ ears pink, the pit in John’s stomach left yawning in the wake of his desperation. 

They can’t meet each other’s eyes.

Chas tips over, flopping down onto the other side of the bed, and takes a deep breath as he stares at the ceiling.

Another moment.

And then Chas rolls onto his side and drags John over, pulls him in tight against his broad, panting chest. A bit of a surprise, that: Chas'll almost never initiate so much post-coital affection, though he’ll always gladly engage whenever John does. But John doesn’t need to be told twice — doesn’t need to be told at all — and he settles in, wrapping his own arm around Chas' waist, worming his knee between Chas' thighs. He feels his chest, streaked with sweat and spit and come, catch against Chas’ fresh shirt, and winces. But Chas seems oblivious to this collateral defilement; just pulls him closer, and begins running his palm along John’s spine. 

"Chas," John pants, thoughtlessly, nosing at the underside of Chas’ chin. 

“Hm?” Chas makes a soft, gently inquisitive sound. 

“I’m sorry.”

Chas’ hand stills, and he takes a breath before he asks. "For what?” 

_For what? _John thinks, incredulous. _For the stains on your shirt and the mess in your cab — the mess in your whole bloody life. For the millstone round your neck, the one you're so used to carrying that you’ve forgotten it’s there._

_For letting you love me._

_For loving you back._

"For bein' such a lazy fucking sod," John says, and Chas laughs, sudden and rumbling, filling John's chest with glowing, aching warmth.

“Yeah, sure you are," Chas chides, giving John a fond pat on the back. “Apology accepted, but...” he presses a kiss to the top of John’s head before he continues. “But don’t get too comfortable,” he says, as if Chas’ proximity alone isn’t enough to make John the most comfortable he’s been in years.

“I won't if you don't, love,” John quips, making a great show of stretching out his arm and draping it across the back of Chas’ neck. Tips his head up, putting them face to face, and smirks.

Chas rolls his eyes. “We're still gonna have to get up eventually,” he points out, doing a terrible job of hiding his smile.

John leans in to nuzzles his nose against Chas’. “Just as you say, mate."

*

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to [jessicamiriamdrew](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessicamiriamdrew/pseuds/jessicamiriamdrew) for helping me recover part of this that i accidentally deleted <3


End file.
